


How'd we get here?

by SammyPanda



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, M/M, but I don't know if you guys wanna read this, domestic abuse, end of season 2, this is supposed to be a multi-chapter thing, very slow burn, which is pretty canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-03-17 21:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammyPanda/pseuds/SammyPanda
Summary: "He had failed to obey his father, it was as simple as that. He had been told to find Maxine and bring her home. Find Max. The repercussions of not finding her were clear in his words."Billy makes his way home after the events at the Byers' house, not quite sure what had happened, but pretty sure what's about to.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at writing. I do hope you enjoy it. Mind you, English is not my first language so my apologies for any mistakes.

 

After getting jabbed in his neck with that needle, containing whatever the _hell_ that was, everything is kind of a blur. He does remember waking up in that house, groggy and still out of it. The walls were covered in – drawings or something? He remembers trying to get up, and needing a couple of tries before he got his feet under him. He remembers stumbling to the fridge to find a beer – alcohol always helps settle everything. Upon opening it he doesn’t find beer – or anything edible really. And he’s not sure _what_ he’s found, but he knows it’s not good; knows it’s some sort of dead animal. He stumbles back, not even sure if he’s closed the fridge and rushes out of the house. The crisp November air helps a little in clearing his mind and he realises almost instantly that his car is _not_ _there_. He checks his pockets for his keys, and curses when he comes up empty. He glances back at the house, maybe they fell out of his pocket? He stands to think for a moment: does he want to go _back_ in that weird house? No. And even if he does and even if he _finds_ his keys, his car is still fucking gone. A sigh escapes his lips and he decides to start walking home.

As he slowly makes his way through the dark town that is Hawkins, he notices how much his body actually hurts. He remembers Harrington getting a few hits in, but the dull ache that’s spreading through his body is different. ‘ _What the hell was in that syringe?_ ’ As the thought comes to him, he remembers _who_ had stuck the needle in his neck and he stops mid step. ‘ _Where the hell is Max?!’_ He turns around on the spot, looking back the way he came. He was supposed to find her and bring her home. _Find Max_. A sense of dread fills him. He has no idea where she is, ‘ _little shit probably stole my car’_ , and he has no way of getting her home now. _Fuck._

He continued walking; he couldn’t really stay out here all night. He tried to come up with something to tell his father about why he hadn’t brought Max home. But everything he came up with sounded weak, even in his own thoughts. He had failed to obey his father, it was as simple as that. He had been told to find Maxine and bring her home. _Find Max_. The repercussions of _not_ finding her were clear in his words.

Way too soon for his liking, he saw the familiar glint of Old Cherry Road. He slowed his walking, trying to push off the inevitable for as long as possible. As he came up his drive way and glanced at his face in the window of his father’s car, he noticed the blood underneath his nose. He quickly wiped it off with the sleeve of his button-up and slowly walked to his front door. He saw that several lights were on in the house; of course Susan wouldn’t have gone to bed without her _precious_ daughter at home, safe and sound. Suddenly the door swung open and he could see Neil standing in its opening. He shrunk in on himself a little, hunching his shoulders as he slowly moved to the door.

“Where is Max?” came the barked question.

-“I couldn’t find her” he replied, stopping in front of his father, looking at the ground.

-“You what?” the disdain was clear in his father’s voice, as was the undercurrent of anger. Billy shook his head, shrugging as he did.

-“I looked everywhere, I couldn’t find her.”

He could hear Neil breathing, a harsh sound in the otherwise quiet of the night. As he chanced a glance he could see – no, _feel_ the rage coming off him, and it caused him to take a small step back, as he clenched his jaw, readying himself for the hit that was sure to come. As Neil’s fist clenched, and he took a minute step forward, intent clear, Susan appeared at his side.

“Billy?”

His eyes didn’t leave Neil’s, but he could feel hers roaming over his body, taking in his de-shelved appearance.

“Billy, did you find Maxine?” came her frantic question, concern drenching her words.

-“He didn’t” Neil growled, narrowing his eyes.

-“I’m sorry, Susan” Billy’s voice sounded weak, even to his own ears and he felt like he was about to cry. He heard Susan’s gasp and then a small squeak escaped her as the telephone rang, startling her. She rushed back inside to answer it. Neil turned his head, grumbling under his breath who could possibly be calling the house at this time of night. He moved back inside, following Susan to the phone. Billy released the breath he was holding, and slowly moved inside, closing the front door behind him. He could just hear Susan’s relieved exclamation of ‘I’m so glad you’re safe’ before two hands grabbed the lapels of his shirt and he was forcefully pushed against the front door. Neil was in his face.

“I gave you one simple thing to do. One. And you couldn’t even do that” Neil said, voice calm and low as he shook his hands, rattling Billy’s head against the door.

“Did you even go look for her? Hmm? Did you?”

-“I di…-”

An openhanded slap to his cheek stopped his response.

-“I don’t think you did. Because if you had, you would have brought her home. Isn’t that right?”

Another shake.

“Isn’t that right?!” Neil yelled. Billy blinked slowly, swallowing the bile that was threatening to rise in his mouth, he felt light headed, he felt sluggish and he could feel himself swaying on his feet.

“Or are you really as _useless_ as I think you are? It is your job to look after your sister!”

A closed fist connected with his jaw. His legs gave out and he went down, clipping the edge of the little table next to the front door with the side of his head.

“Can’t even take a punch!” a kick to the ribs followed his statement, causing Billy to curl up and cough roughly.

“What did we talk about?!” When Billy didn’t respond another kick was aimed at him.

“What. Did. We. Talk. About?!” every word was punctuated by a kick. Somewhere after the second kick Billy had pulled his arms around himself to protect his ribs. One of the following kicks connected painfully with his right wrist, and something hot travelled up his arm. By the end of Neil’s sentence Billy was spitting out blood as it dribbled down his chin.

“WHAT! DI..-” Neil roared, but was cut off by Billy wheezing.

-“Re… Respect…an..-” another kick had him coughing.

-“Do NOT interrupt me again!”

-“Neil…” came a meek voice from the kitchen, causing Neil to turn to Susan. She stood, hugging herself with her hands.

“Maxine is safe. She’s at a friend’s house. She’ll be home tomorrow” she said, aiming for a smile, but couldn’t quite bring it up. Neil nodded, turning back to his son, who was still curled up on the ground.

-“You’re lucky she is safe, you _useless_ _faggot_ ” he spat, delivering one last kick before turning and walking to the kitchen. Susan looked at Billy, who was trying to get up (for the second time that night) and struggled with it. She moved forwards to help him.

“Don’t…” he croaked, his voice raw from the blood in his throat, pausing Susan in her motion. He scrambled up, leaning heavily on the door, lifting his head to look at her, a glare in his eyes. His hair was falling in his face and he was sure he looked even worse than when he first walked through the door. He could see the regret and sorrow in her eyes, but he couldn’t deal with that right now. Without a word he stumbled past her to his room, closing the door behind him and moving to sit heavily on his bed. He felt absolutely exhausted, like every ounce of energy had just been kicked out of him by his father. Truth be told, it probably was.

After a few moments of catching his breath, he slowly got up and moved towards his mirror, movements made sluggish by an evening filled with a syringe full of crap and two beatings. ‘ _One and a half, really. Harrington got a few punches in, but if Max hadn’t stuck me with that needle I would have killed him.’_ And wow, isn’t _that_ a thought. He slowly stripped himself of his shirt, eyeing the already reddening markings on his chest and abs, noticing how in a few places the skin was torn, blood slowly oozing out. A twist of his arm had him hissing as it pulled on his right wrist, which was starting to puff up and thicken. _Shit_. There was a cut on his eyebrow that was bleeding freely. He balled his already ruined shirt up and dabbed at the different wounds, first moving over his abs before wiping the blood from his face. When it was clear the cut on his eyebrow would not stop bleeding he threw the shirt on the floor with a growl, anger bubbling up. _Useless_. He started pacing the small expanse of his room, running his hands through his hair. The movement was made difficult thanks to the pain in his ribs and wrist. _Useless._ His hands started to tug at his hair as the word repeated itself over and over. _Useless_. The anger and humiliation threatened to consume him as he felt hotness prickle at his eyes and as he turned back towards his mirror, fingers still pulling at his hair, he could see the fat, hot tears streaming down his face. _Useless faggot_. His left fist connected with his reflection in the mirror. A couple of pieces embedded itself in his hand as other pieces fell to the ground. Billy followed. He sank to his knees, muffling his scream of frustration in his hands. He fell backwards against the side of his bed, hugging his knees, tears and snot streaming down his face. _Useless_.


	2. Chapter Two

He must have fallen asleep sometime during the night, because when Billy next opens his eyes sunlight is sort of blinding him. Blinking his eyes and adjusting to the sudden _brightness_ everything comes rushing back to him. He kind of wishes he was dead. He is still seated next to his bed, curled in on himself, _hugging_ himself. And everything hurts. _Everything_. He slowly tries to stretch his legs, movements stiff. His chest and abs are riddled in dark red - some even already purple – bruises, the dried blood from the few pieces of torn skin having dried, adding to the overall gore-ishness of the sight. His right wrist is also turning purple. The mirror shards from his left hand had fallen out during the night, leaving little cuts littering his hand and the blood covering them has dried. Using his left hand as leverage to push himself to sit on his bed, he takes a deep breath. _That_ hurt.

He looks around his room, trying to figure out what the hell _now._ He takes in his broken mirror and the bloodied, balled up remains of his red shirt. He slowly stands up, feeling himself sway, a little light headed. He moves over to his mirror, or what is left of it, and looks at himself through the cracks. He looks fucking horrible. He gingerly prods his face with his fingers, wincing slightly. His wrist watch catches his eye; the glass face broken too and the time reading 11:37 a.m. He tries to remember what day it is, and it takes him an embarrassing long time to come to the conclusion that it is, in fact, Thursday. His father should be at work and Susan is usually out of the house in the mornings. And Max. _Max_ … A surge of anger runs through him at the thought of her name. He shakes his head, regretting it immediately when a sharp pain shoots through it. A sigh escapes him, he’s getting fed up with the pain. He makes a decision to first take a shower. Wash all the dirt, and blood and just _everything_ off him before - _maybe_ \- looking for some food.

He trudges to the bathroom, leaving his bedroom door opened. He flicks the light on and scurries around trying to find some towels. When he turns to the mirror, he actually stops to stare. In the harsh, fake light provided by the overhead fluorescent tube his face looks somehow even worse. He takes note of all the injuries. The ones caused by his father - _a cut on his eyebrow; the bruise on his jaw, the one with the ring indent; and of course the scattering of bruises on his chest, complete with torn skin_ \- and the few caused by Harrington - _the bruising around his eye and the cut on his nose._ He fleetingly wonders how _he_ is, remembers that he beat the living crap out of him. He wasn’t there in the house when Billy woke up, so he must have been conscious, at least. Or maybe someone dragged him out? Or did someone call an ambulance for him? ‘ _Paramedics didn’t wanna take a fuck up like me with them, eh?_ ’ He decides to not think on it too long. He starts to bend down to take off his boots, but not even half way down and the muscles in his abs seize up and pain spreads through his ribs. _Fuck._ He puts the toilet seat down, maybe a little harsher then is warranted, and plants his butt, trying again to get the boots. Even from this position he can’t get to them and a loud growl of frustration leaves him. “FUCK!” he screams for good measure, feeling like he is about to cry _again_. ‘ _Jesus Fuck what the hell is wrong with me?_ ’ He’s angry enough to just bend down, through the pain, and remove is boots, kicking off his socks in the process. He stands up again, wobbly, to shrug out of his jeans and underwear. He turns on the shower, sets it _hot_ and climbs in, revelling in the scalding water hitting his aching body. He hadn’t realised he was this cold.

He stands under the spray for a long while, turning his face towards the showerhead, letting the water soak him. When he feels he’s warmed up a little he reaches for his body wash and slowly starts to work on cleaning himself. He rubs his hands roughly over his face, trying not to wince, and failing. He then moves to his chest and abs, moving lighter over the bruises there. He prods his ribs, trying to determine if any of them are broken. They all hurt, but not to a point where he can’t poke at them, so he figures he’s good. He then reaches for his shampoo, and tries not to jostle his head too much as he slowly lathers his hair. He tips his head back into the spray to rinse out, and nearly falls back, having a little difficulty with his balance. He decides it’s safer to turn around and lean his head forward under the spray. He still has to lean a hand against the wall to not fall, but it works better like this. As he slowly opens his eyes to watch the suds disappear down the drain he notices the red colour to them. He slowly brushes his hands through his hair, pulling them back to see them red stained. He rinses off the last of the shampoo and shuts the water off, reaching to wrap a towel around his waist.

As he stands back in front of the mirror, he can see that the cut on his eyebrow has opened again, and another somewhere in his hairline as well and a steady trickle of blood is running down the side of his face. He takes another towel and rubs it through his hair, trying to get the blood out of it. He presses the towel to the cuts, trying to stop the bleeding, and it’s not really working. He kneels to get the first aid kit out from under the sink, slamming it on the counter and riffling through it to find some Band-Aids. He doesn’t normally dress his wounds, but he doesn’t want to have blood running down his face all day, so after finding some, he sticks one on his eyebrow trying to close the cut. It sort of works and he looks pleased. The one in his hairline is a little trickier because the thing won’t stick to his hair and after a few failed attempts decides to just give up, seeing as the bleeding had already stopped. He closes the first aid kit and throws it back under the sink before making his way back to his room. When he steps out of the bathroom he stops in his tracks. Max is standing in the doorway to his bedroom, wide eyed. She turns to look at him as he steps out of the bathroom, her still wide eyes roaming his body, taking in all the injuries. The anger bubbles up in him again, and he remembers her words and the promise he had made. ‘ _From now on you leave me and my friends alone’._ He slowly walks forward, her eyes still stuck to his body, as he moved towards his room. When he’s a few feet from her she looks up at him, studies his face, hers scrunching up in confusion. She glances back in his room.

“I…uh.. I..-” she starts, but Billy doesn’t wanna talk to her. He’s angry at her, _so_ angry, and if she starts to talk to him now he has no idea what he’ll do. So he just walks into his room, slamming the door closed behind him, leaning heavily against it, leaving Max standing outside, her mouth probably still open in the middle of her sentence. He can practically feel her standing in front of his door, can maybe even feel her take a step closer, raising her fist to knock on his door. And then she moves away, sneaker clad feet shuffling down the hall.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I've said this before, but none of this is beta'd. So if you guys spot any mistakes or errors or whatever, let me know! Also, enjoy.

He hears the front door close not long after he is back in his room. He hears the crunch the wheels Max’s skateboard make on the asphalt of the street. He releases a breath he hadn’t really known he was holding as he finally moves away from the door. Moving toward his vanity he picks up his comb, shaking a few bits of mirror off it, and slowly moves it through his hair, not wanting the cut to open again. He also can’t really move his arm around all that much, but whatever. As he combs his hair he moves to his boom box pressing ‘play’, Metallica blasting through the room. He almost immediately turns it off, as the loud sounds of the guitar riff nearly splits his head in two. He squeezes his eyes closed for a second, nearly dropping the comb. _‘Fuck that hurt’_. Blinking them open slowly he softly shakes his head again, a wave of dizziness overtaking him. ‘ _I need to_ stop _shaking my head, Jesus!’_ He slowly sits himself down on his bed again, breathing heavily, willing his aching ribs to expand with every deep breath he takes.

After a few minutes he feels his head clear a little. He decides to forego fixing his hair and pulls a hair scrunchie from a drawer, tying his hair in a messy bun. He then pulls a pair of dark blue jeans and a faded grey t-shirt from his closet, he’s not going to bother with boxers right now, getting in his jeans is gonna hurt enough as it is. He shrugs them on, slowly, slipping on a pair of socks and going back to the bathroom to get his boots. He moves to the kitchen to riffle through the cabinets looking for some Tylenol or something, but comes up empty. He eyes the fridge, vaguely remembering the last fridge he opened and finding _something_ inside. He moves to it and yanks it open and finds nothing but food and drink inside. _‘What was I expecting? What the hell?’_

As he surveys the inside of the fridge he comes to the conclusion that he is not actually hungry and he turns back towards one of the cupboards to pull out a glass. He fills it under the tap and drains it in one go. He then turns to pull on his jacket before remembering that his jacket is still in his car; his car of which he has no idea _where_ it is. ‘ _FUCK!’_ Moving to the front room he peers out the window to the driveway and sees it sitting there, as though he drove her home himself. _‘What the fuck?’_ He finds the key on the little table by the door - vaguely notices the traces of blood on the side of it - and he grabs them, getting outside and looking at his car. There’s a scratch on the front bumper and the side of it, and the tires are covered in dirt, like someone took it off-road, but other than that it looks good. He unlocks it and slowly gets in, usually loving to low sit, now not so much. It’s quite a hassle to get in what with everything hurting, but he manages it. Once he’s seated he glances around the front of it, finding his jacket on the passenger side floor.

He sticks his keys in the ignition, feeling her rumble to life. The radio is off, and his rear-view mirror is in a different position, but other than that his car is fine. He picks his jacket up off the floor and finds his pack of smokes. He shakes one out and riffles through the pockets to find his lighter. His wallet falls out onto the floor, between his legs and he has to make a weird, nigh impossible twist in order to get it. He’s practically panting by the time he gets it. As he sits up, he notices two splotches of red slowly seeping into the t-shirt. He curses and gently pushed the t-shirt into them. After a few seconds he notices the stains aren’t getting bigger, so he calls it a win. He throws the cheap leather wallet in the passenger seat and finally finds his lighter, lighting the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He inhales deeply on the first pull and immediately starts coughing up a lung. The expansion of his lungs triggered the bruised ribs, causing him to groan in pain, inhale the smoke wrong resulting in his coughing, which isn’t really doing his ribs any good. There are tears streaming down his face when he’s finally finished coughing and he glares at his cigarette, as though the inanimate object is to blame for everything. He debates on throwing the thing out, but he is nothing if not stubborn so he just takes a smaller pull, not expanding his lungs as much and he doesn’t immediately feel like he’s dying, so he calls it a win. He puts his car in reverse, wipes the tears from his face and peels out of his drive way, happily puffing on his cigarette.

He makes his way to Melvald’s, pretty sure that they have painkillers. It’s not overly busy downtown, but there are considerably more people about than were last night, when he was walking home. To his surprise he actually finds a spot near the store, or steals one really, before cutting the engine. He sits in his car for a few moments, stealing himself for getting out. Getting in had been painful, and being in the same position for the past fifteen minutes couldn’t have been good for his body. He takes a deep breath, regrets it, and swings the door open, plants his feet on the ground and pulls himself up in one swift motion, almost making it look normal. He leans against his car door for a moment, a grimace moving over his face, before his mask of indifference is back. Slamming his door closed, he moves around the car and fishes his jacket and wallet from the passenger side. People are watching him, he can tell, as they always do, and he knows he looks like shit with half his face covered in bruises. He shrugs his jacket on, trying not to wince and grimace too much, and sticks his wallet in his back pocket, before trudging up to Melvald’s.

He can hear people murmuring to each other when he walks through the door, and the check-out clerk looks at him sceptically. He makes his way through the rows before coming to the right isle, finding a remarkable large collection of different brands of painkillers. He looks for Tylenol, the only one he _knows_ works for everything. He grabs two bottles and another bottle filled with aspirin before turning around, intent on making his way to the check-out and back home. He doesn’t even make it one step, because just then Harrington walks into the isle from the other end. He hasn’t noticed him yet, having his head down and moving swiftly. Billy is frozen on the spot, and when Harrington finally, _finally_ , notices him, they are a few feet apart. The colour drains from Harrington’s face, the red’s and purples somehow even more pronounced. _‘Shit. He looks bad. Really bad. Did I really do all that?’_ Billy wonders why he cares. He sees Harrington look him over, from the Band-Aid on his eyebrow, to the purpling bruises on his jaw, _‘he can probably see the fucking ring indentation’_ , to the cut up hand holding two bottles of Tylenol and a bottle of aspirin and lastly the other hand that hangs limply at his side. A look enters his eyes and Billy can’t place it, but it looks suspiciously like concern _‘I wonder how he’ll look when he sees what’s under my clothes’_. Billy is not sure where _that_ thought came from. Harrington looks back up at his face, making eye contact and he looks tired. _Really_ tired. He also looks like he is about to speak, and Billy really can’t handle that right now, so he turns and walks out of the isle, going the other way around to get to the check-out counter. He places the three bottles on the counter, and gives the clerk a glare when it seems that he too is going to say something. Billy turns his head slightly and can see Harrington coming his way, so he throws a couple of bills on the counter, prays to God it’s enough, grabs the pills and moves out of the store as fast as his injured body lets him. He’s just pulling the door to his car open when he hears Harrington’s voice.

“Hargrove…” it’s as much a statement as it is a question and it actually halts Billy in his movements. It doesn’t make him turn around, but the pause is enough to make Harrington continue.

“I uh… I’m…” for a second it seems that that is all Harrington can get out, and Billy is seconds away from climbing in his car when he speaks up again.

“Did Max get home okay?”

_That’s_ what he wants to know? If fucking  _Max_ got home okay? It makes Billy angry. Really angry. And he spins around to glare at Harrington, but of course he moves too fast, causing another wave of dizziness through his head and he reaches out to hold the roof of his car to not fall over. _That_ makes him wince when the movement pulls on his aching ribs, making him double over slightly. He can see Harrington move towards him, the hand not holding something reaching out to him.

“Don’t” Billy grounds out through gritted teeth, and it comes out sounding less threatening than he would have liked. But it stops Harrington in his tracks, so it’s good enough. Billy straightens up again and looks Harrington in the eye, seeing that same look – _concern._ _‘Why the hell would he be concerned about me? He should never want to talk to me again after what I did to him. Why is he still looking at me with those pretty eyes? What?!’_

“What?” Billy snaps, not really sure where the thought on Harrington’s eyes came from and getting antsy under the scrutinizing look Harrington is giving him.

“Are you… Are you okay?” Harrington asks. Billy is not sure he heard him correctly, and he just stares at him sort of blankly, not sure what to do. No one’s asked him that in a long time, and he’s not sure why _Harrington_ of all people asks. ‘ _I almost killed him last night, why the hell does he care how_ I _am?_ ’ Harrington seems to have the same sort of train of thought and he looks embarrassed that he’s asked, and he shakes his head slightly, sputtering a little.

“I…I mean… It’s just… I… The… I’ve never seen you with a t-shirt on…” as soon as the words leave his mouth Harrington groans, closing his eyes, and shaking his head. Billy looks down at himself, at the faded Mötley Crüe t-shirt he’s wearing, and notices one of the bloodstains is progressively, if slowly, getting bigger, before looking back at Harrington, not really sure what’s happening right now. He also has no _idea_ how to respond to any of what Harrington just said. Harrington seems to shake himself of his embarrassment and looks back up at Billy.

“Never mind, forget it” he says finally, shaking his head again before turning and walking away. Billy is still standing next to his car, loosely gripping the top of it, watching Harrington get in his own car and drive away. He still has _no_ idea what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we got a chance meeting at a grocery store, how about that ;)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hya. The next installment, sorry for the wait. Enjoy.

On the drive home he keeps replaying the conversation he had with Harrington, and it _still_ doesn’t make sense to him. ‘ _Why did he even talk to me? Yeah, he wanted to know about Max, but why would he ask me if_ I’m _okay, why would he care?? And why the hell did I think his eyes are pretty?!!_ ’ He can’t make heads or tails of it, so he just chalks it up to the pain. Makes him think weird things. That happens. Right?

Coming home to an empty house is like a breath of fresh air. No need to have weird conversations with people, or walk on eggshells in case of another beating. He can just relax, for the first time in what feels like _forever_. And he does just that; he swallows about half a bottle of Tylenol before settling on the couch with a beer – or three - flicking through the channels on the TV. He lights a cigarette and finds that with the pain medication, breathing in has become easier. It’s not _completely_ painless, but it _is_ a lot better than it was. He’s half debating getting that last bit of ‘California Green’ he keeps for special occasions, but decides against it ‘ _there’ll be better times for that_ ’.

It’s about one hour, three quarter bottle of pain pills, six cigarettes and four beers later that there’s a knock on the door. He’s seriously debating just letting them stand there, when there’s another knock and another and another. He stubs out his cigarette and hoists himself up, _still_ swaying ‘ _Goddammit!_ ’ and makes his way to the door, before yanking it open. He pulls back immediately when none other than Steve fucking Harrington is standing on his doorstep. _‘Maybe I’m hallucinating?_ Should _you mix Tylenol and alcohol? What is_ happening _?’_ He looks past him to his driveway, not seeing Harrington’s Beemer there _‘Did he walk here?’_ Harrington for his part looks lost. Like he himself is not entirely sure why he’s there. He’s looking at everything _but_ Billy, and it’s starting to irritate Billy.

“What are you doing here, pretty boy?” Billy grumbles out when it seems that Harrington isn’t going to talk anytime soon. He’s not sure if it’s his tone or the pet-name _‘and where exactly did_ that _come from?!’_ that has Harrington looking up, finally making eye-contact. His deep brown eyes are searching Billy’s, and the only thing he can think of is ‘ _pretty_ ’.

“I uh… I’m not sure, really….” Is what Harrington manages, before shaking his head.

“I just... back at the store…you uh…” he gestures at Billy. Harrington’s tone is gentle, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal, and the concern is obvious in his voice and eyes. It kind of throws Billy of kilter, having no idea how to deal with something like this. So he does the one thing he knows how to do: he puts up his walls. He crosses his arms over his chest, noticing Harrington’s ‘ _pretty_ ’ eyes following the movement. He then leans himself against the doorpost, and tilts his head, letting a smirk play on his lips.

“I _what_ , princess?”

Harrington notices his change in demeanour, Billy can see it in his eyes.

“You looked really bad…?” the way he says it, makes it sound like a question, like he’s trying to decide if what he saw really happened.

“Did I?” the smirk grows bigger, and Billy slowly tilts his body forward.

“Are you concerned about me, princess? Is that why you’re here?” he chuckles with a mocking tone. He can see Harrington’s cheeks redden, and isn’t _that_ a pretty picture. ‘ _What?_ ’

“No! I just… I…-” Harrington is spluttering, cheeks getting more red by the second. It’s actually quite funny to watch, but maybe Billy would enjoy it more if it didn’t make him feel something weird in his stomach.

“You just what, sweetie?” he’s just taunting him now, not even noticing all the pet-names he’s throwing at Harrington and he kinda wants to see how this plays out. Something seems to shift in Harrington’s eyes though, and all of a sudden he’s standing straight up, glaring at Billy.

“Fine! Maybe I _was_ concerned, because I may not remember a whole lot from last night, you know, when you almost _killed_ me, but I _do_ remember not getting any punches in. And the ones I _did_ throw definitely weren’t to your chest, where you’re _still_ fucking bleeding, by the way!” Harrington finishes his outburst by crossing his arms and staring at the ground.

The taunting smirk had fallen from Billy’s face, and he pushed himself off of the doorpost. His hands had fallen by his side, balled tight into fists. Harrington’s words felt like a punch to the chest and it was actually a little difficult to breath. He looks down at himself, noticing that Harrington was correct, he _is_ still bleeding, or bleeding again maybe. He looks back up, bares his teeth, ready to strike, with _what_ he doesn’t know, but he’s ready. But then he hears the tell-tale sound of his fathers’ truck coming down the road, and he freezes, his head whipping in its direction. His eyes widen and he’s actually holding his breath as he can see the headlights coming. Harrington notices the sudden change in Billy, and follows his gaze.

“What, man?” he questions, no idea what has Billy so spooked. Harrington’s words seem to pull Billy out of his shock and his wide eyes lock with Harrington’s. And for someone who is severely injured, Billy suddenly moves very fast.

He grabs Harrington’s hand, yanks him in the house and shuts the door. He starts to drag him through his house, past the couch and the kitchen into his bedroom, never once releasing his bruising grip on his hand. Harrington is complaining the whole way, having no idea what’s happening, but he doesn’t overtly resist, for which Billy is silently thankful. When they enter his room, Billy pushes him towards his closet, just as he hears the front door open and close. Billy’s head turns towards his bedroom door, eyes still wide, breathing still way too fast as he pushes into Harrington’s chest, trying to get him to move.

“Hey what the hell man, what are you doing?” Harrington pipes up, causing Billy to slam one hand in front of his mouth, and the other around the back of his head, before stepping into his space.

“Shut up! Get in the closet, stay quiet and _don’t_ come out until I say” Billy says in a harsh whisper. He can see Harrington’s eyes widen and a light flush creep up from his neck before he is ripping his face away from Billy’s hand.

“What?! No way man” there’s a frown on his face, alongside the flush, but his voice is quieter, a harsh whisper. Billy can hear his fathers’ footsteps as he makes his way through the house, can hear him walking towards his room. Billy is starting to panic ‘ _they can_ not _see each other_ ’. There’s only one thing he can think of to make Harrington listen.

“Please” he harshly whispers. His eyes are huge and pleading and he can see that he’s shocked Harrington. His fathers’ footsteps are too close to his room now, so he just pushes a wide-eyed Harrington into his closet and shoves the door closed, silently thankful that he goes easily. He steels himself and moves to his door, not quite ready to face his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a hard time writing them in character, and I feel like maybe they get a bit OOC?? I'll work on it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hya.
> 
> So this one's a bit longer than the previous ones. I debated cutting it in half somewhere, but then I didn't... So yeah... Enjoy.

When Steve woke up that morning he had no idea that by the end of the day he’d be shoved into Billy Hargrove’s closet.

Waking up had been painful. _Very_ painful. His head felt heavy where it lay on his pillow, the right side smushed into it, a small string of drool trickling down the side of his mouth, sunlight shining in his eyes. He moved to lay on his back, to get the sun out of his eyes and the movement made it feel like a bear had sat on his head. He slowly blinked his eyes open, or as far as they would go really, and stared blankly at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts.

 _‘Last night was crazy!’_ Bits and pieces of the previous night swam through his head. Fighting Dart and those other demo-dogs at the old junk yard. That weird girl showing up, ‘ _who was she again? Eleven? Are there more of her? Like, ten more of her?’_ The plan the nerd-squad devised to give Chief Hopper and the girl time to close the gate back at the lab. Waking up in the back of the Camaro, speeding down the streets of Hawkins while Max was driv…- ‘ _Oh God… Hargrove_ ’

The thought of Max behind the wheel of Hargrove’s car, immediately put the fight to the forefront of his mind. The fact that his entire face hurt _should_ have done that in the first place, but a _lot_ had happened last night, ok? He slowly sat up against his headboard, shaking his head, running his hands through his messy hair. ‘ _Billy Hargrove._ ’ Granted it wasn’t the first time in recent weeks the other boy was the first thing on his mind in the morning, but this was for a completely different reason. Steve remembered the way the other boy had looked the night before, the pure _anger_ and power behind his punches. The cruel laugh that had past those beautiful lips when Steve had hit him.

Steve wasn’t a fighter. Never was, never would be. He had had no intention of fighting Hargrove when he arrived at the Byers’ house, but when he saw him all up in Lucas’ face he had felt a surge of protectiveness come over him. All he could think of was ‘ _get the fuck away from Lucas_ ’. He didn’t really think beyond that, which was evident in the fact that he got his ass handed to him. _‘God that boy is strong’_ He softly prodded his face, everything feeling puffy.

He slowly got out of bed, swaying slightly, and glanced around his room. ‘ _How in the hell did I get home last night??_ ’ He noticed his dirty clothes lying on the floor, and looking down at himself he saw he was in just his boxers. ‘ _Did someone undress me?? Did I do it myself?_ ’ As he made his way to his bathroom he tried to remember how he had gotten home, but the train of thought was lost on him as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked bad. Really bad. Really _really_ bad. _‘Jesus Christ! What the hell has he done to my face?!’_ He remembered hitting the floor, and after that it’s blank until he wakes up in the car. He kind of wonders if something else happened between that time. He kind of wonders how Hargrove is. ‘ _Probably went home after he beat me up. I know he didn’t touch any of the kids, they would have told me. Maybe he went out with some girl? He looked kinda dressed up?_ ’ He examines his face, the obvious purples and reds of the bruises around his eyes, the blood underneath his nose and the fat lip, that started bleeding again as he ran his tongue over it. He titled his head this way and that, but he couldn’t make it any better: He literally looked like he got the shit kicked out of him. There was no two ways about it.

He decided on a shower, showering always made him feel better. He turns on the shower, sets it to ‘hot’ and gets in. He hadn’t realised he was this cold. After standing under the spray for a few moments he reaches for his shower gel, gently lathering his hands before moving them over his face, being gentle with all the injuries. Overall his injuries are minor, yes his face is positively purple, but it could have been so much worse. ‘ _If Dustin hadn’t been able to distract Dart with that nougat…_ ’ He slowly moves his soap covered hands down his body as he continues to think of the previous night, more snippets coming back to him. ‘ _The way Hargrove had looked getting out of that car, his red shirt open halfway down his abs, the tight,_ so _tight jeans hugging those thighs, and the ever present cigarette dangling from that beautiful mouth’_ A groan from his lips startles Steve back to the present, and it took him a second to realise he had gotten hard thinking about Hargrove and he had unconsciously started to stroke himself. He immediately let go of himself, feeling his face heat up with shame. ‘ _What the hell?? The guy beat the shit out of me last night and I’m jerking off to him?! What the hell is wrong with me?_ ’ He immediately turned the shower to cold, willing his erection away and to his embarrassment, it took longer than it should have.

Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist he stepped back in front of the mirror, admitting to himself that he looked a little better than before. He started about styling his hair when the phone rang. He turned his head towards the bathroom door, wondering if anyone else was home. When after five rings, the sixth rang out, he realised he was in fact alone, and he sprinted to the phone.

“Hello?” he asked, hoping he had been on time.

“Steve? Steve’s that you?” came the familiar lisped voice. A smile came to Steve’s lips unbidden.

“Yeah kid, it’s me” he replied with a chuckle.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine”

“Thank God! We were a little scared you still might have died in your sleep or something”

Now, Dustin _was_ known to overreact at times, but his tone of voice had Steve slowing down a little, wondering if maybe more things _had_ happened.

“I… What? Why?” Steve couldn’t really make heads or tails of it.

“Well…uh…I mean…” Dustin was backpedalling, he could tell, but he _really_ needed to know what else had happened.

“Cut the shit, Dustin. Just tell me” Steve muttered, slightly shaking his head because he was cussing at a kid.

“What do you remember? About your fight with Max’s douchebag brother I mean…”

So something more _had_ happened with Hargrove?

“I remember him getting in Lucas’ face… And me getting a couple hits in, before hitting the floor. That’s about it...” God, he really _was_ a _shitty_ fighter.

“Yeah, well, what you missed out on, is him wailing on you. And I mean, _wailing_. We were all pretty sure he was gonna kill you” Dustin provided. Steve let all that register. ‘ _Hargrove almost killed me? What the hell? WHY? WHAT THE HELL??!! Hang on..-_ ’

“If he almost killed me... Why didn’t he?” he asked Dustin, because even though they are awesome, _no way_ were those kid a match against Hargrove.

“Max” came Dustin’s reply, and from the sound of his voice, Steve could tell he was smiling.

“Max?”

“She stabbed him in the neck with a syringe, and then she threatened him with your bat. You know the one with the nails? It was _so_ cool Steve, you should have seen it!” Dustin explained enthusiastically, his voice full of pride. Steve however, was a little stunned.

“She…She what?”

“Steve are you okay? I mean, he kicked your ass, beat you face in and everything. And then everything that happened in The Upside Down. Maybe you _do_ have a concussion? Did you go to the doctor, yet?”

“The doctor? No. What?”

“You said last night that you would go to the hospital? Remember? When we dropped you off?”

“Dropped me off?”

“Dropped you off, yeah. You seem really slow, Steve. Slower than usual. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling _fine_ , _Dustin_. I just have a little trouble _digesting_ the information that Hargrove almost _killed_ me last night, but didn’t because his twelve year old sister stabbed him with a syringe, and threatened him with a nail filled bat, after which I was _dropped off_ at my house!” Steve was starting to hyperventilate. He needed to breathe.

“Steve. Steve. Calm down. You need to breathe. Everything is fine. Everyone is ok. Everything worked out” Dustin provided, in what _he_ must have thought was a soothing voice, but what really sounded like he was talking to a four year old.

“I’m calm!”

He really wasn’t.

“Sure Steve. Look, I gotta go. Breathe in. Breathe out, and we’ll come round later okay? Okay, bye” and with that Dustin had hung up the phone. Steve blinked at the receiver for a few seconds before hanging up. _‘Hargrove almost killed me. And I was dropped off at my house’_ he really couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole situation, so he shuffles back to the bathroom and continues styling his hair, eyeing the reds and purples of his face. Everything still hurt so he decides on some painkillers, maybe something to eat and _then_ he’ll revise the whole situation.

As he’s getting dressed he collects his dirty clothes from last night. They smell like smoke, and blood and dirt and _something_. He pulls the arguably ruined shirt to his nose and inhales. Underneath all the dirt and grime and Upside Down he can smell something earthy. Something different. Something familiar. Something….nice. It takes him a minute to place the smell. _Hargrove_. When the realisation comes to him he pulls the shirt away from his face, holds it between his thumb and forefinger like it’s offended him. He eyes it, before rolling his eyes ‘ _What am I doing?_ ’ He balls the shirt up and with the rest of his dirty clothes throws it in the hamper in the bathroom. He pulls open the cabinets looking for some painkillers, but can’t find any.

He makes his way downstairs, having struck out in his search of painkillers in the upstairs bathroom. He pulls a bottle of water from the fridge before rummaging through the cupboards, his head pounding a little bit more than before. He leans back against the counter and sips from his bottle, having come to the conclusion that there’s no painkillers in the house. _‘I’m gonna have to go to the store to get some. I can’t go out looking like this!! Shit my head hurts. Shit.’_ He decides on going to Melvald’s, pretty sure they have sufficient painkillers.

He finds his jacket and car keys on the kitchen table and after locating his wallet on one of the chairs he makes his way outside, squinting at the light. He blinks a couple of times to get used to it, and then looks around. Seeing everything in the daylight makes last night seem like a dream. Like none of it happened. Like they hadn’t _saved_ the damn town. Mr McClintock walks past Steve’s driveway walking his yappy dog and Steve gives him a little wave as they pass and Steve can see the look of shock pass over his face, visibly eyeing all the bruises _‘Okay, maybe_ not _like none of it happened’_ He climbs in his car swiftly, not wanting anyone else to see him and he peels out of the driveway in a hurry.

When he gets out of his car at Melvald’s, he keeps his head down, not wanting to attract too much attention. He’s moving pretty fast through the shops isles, avoids making eye contact with most anyone and makes it to the painkillers isle in top time. It’s when he’s halfway down, that he notices someone else is there, and he looks up, coming face to face with Billy Hargrove. ‘ _Jesus. He looks bad. No way I did all that._ ’ His eyes flit over Hargrove’s body, taking in the Band-Aid on his eyebrow where a small patch of blood is coming through, the reds and purples of his eyes and jaw ‘ _is that a_ ring _indentation?!_ ’ The two red patches on the boy’s shirt. There are also a lot of tiny cuts on his left hand, the one holding three bottles of painkillers as the other hand hangs limply by his side. All in all he looks worse than Steve feels, and he knows that _he_ didn’t do all that to him. ‘ _What the hell happened to him? Did he get into_ another _fight?_ ’ Steve can’t help but feel concerned, and he’s about to ask Hargrove if he’s ok when the boy spins on his heels, and tails it out of the isle. Steve is halfway to following him ‘ _when did I move?_ ’ before he remembers he’s here for painkillers too. He stops to grab a bottle of Tylenol and a bottle of aspirin before making his way to the checkout counter. He can see Hargrove there, throwing money on the counter before snatching the bottles and leaving the shop. Steve moves in a similar fashion, not really throwing the money at Jeffrey, but he’s close.

He catches up to Hargrove just as he’s about to get in his car, and he calls his name, not really expecting him to stop. But he does. Steve’s not really sure how to continue from there.

“I uh… I’m…” his mind is a complete blank, he never _was_ good with words, but he has to say _something_ because he can see Hargrove moving to get in his car and drive away. Looking at the Camaro brings back last night, and Max driving the thing. _Max._

“Did Max get home okay?”

The words have left his mouth before he remembers what Dustin told him on the phone. How Max had stabbed Hargrove with a syringe and threatened him with The Bat. ‘ _Maybe bringing up Max wasn’t the best idea._ ’ It wasn’t. He can see Hargrove’s shoulders tense, his entire back straightening before he whirls around, probably ready to tear Steve a new one, only something is wrong. He can see Hargrove sway on his feet, grabbing the roof of his car to keep him standing. The movement pulls a groan from his lips, and he sort of doubles over, like maybe he’s gonna fall anyway. Steve isn’t even aware that he’s moved, until he hears the pained gasp of “Don’t” coming from Hargrove. Steve noticed he had his arm stretched out, as though to reach for Hargrove, and he pulls his arm back by his side, as Hargrove looks up at him, pain evident in his eyes and something else as well. ‘ _What the_ hell _happened to him? How many more injuries is he hiding under that…t-shirt? Is that an actual t-shirt? How did I not notice that he’s wearing a t-shirt?_ ’

“What?” Hargrove snaps, anger back in his eyes and posture as he slowly stands up straight again. Steve is genuinely concerned, both about the other boy as well as himself, for _being_ concerned about the guy that nearly killed him.

“Are you… Are you okay?” he asks him. Hargrove stares at him, his blue eyes filled with confusion, and Steve can feel his cheeks warming and he shakes his head slightly. ‘ _Of course he’s not okay, you idiot. Jesus. Fix this situation. Fix_ _it_!’

“I…I mean.. It’s just…” _‘You just_ what _, Steve?!’_

“I… The… I’ve never seen you with a t-shirt on…” as soon as the words leave his mouth he closes his eyes and groans. ‘ _Jesus. What is_ wrong _with you?!_ ’ He can see Hargrove looking down at himself, the confusion still there in his eyes as he slowly looks back up at Steve. ‘ _Leave, Steve. Just go. Seriously. Before you say something else stupid._ ’

“Never mind, forget it” he says finally, turning and walking towards his own car. He has the urge to look back, to see if Hargrove got in his own car, or is maybe still looking at Steve, wondering what the hell just happened. ‘ _What_ did _just happen?_ ’

 

 

 

He’s been pacing for the better part of an hour before he’s finally come to a decision. He grabs his jacket and his keys and makes for his car. As he gets in he takes one more breath, stealing himself before turning the key and steering his Beemer onto the road. As he’s driving he turns up the radio, puts in on this side of too loud, so he doesn’t have to hear his own thoughts, because if he were to think about what he’s about to do he would most likely turn around. It isn’t long before he’s driving up Old Cherry Road, pretty sure the Hargrove’s live here; he’s heard Max tell Dustin once. He thinks. He releases a sigh of relieve as he spots the Camaro in the drive-way of a modest looking house. He debates on parking his car on the drive-way too, but decides against it, not really sure why, but he drives a couple of houses up and parks it on the side of the road.

He looks at himself in the rear view mirror one last time before he gets out and walks slowly towards the house. As he passes the Camaro he can see the dents on the side and front of it and silently wonders how angry Hargrove is about that. As he makes it towards the front door he stands there for a few seconds, fist poised to knock on the door, hovering next to his head. ‘ _Just do it, Steve._ ’ He knocks once. There’s no noise coming from the other side of the door, so he knocks again. And again and again. ‘ _He should be here right? His car is in the drive-way. I don’t think he walks anywhere_ ’ He’s about to turn away when the door is yanked open. Hargrove is standing in front of him, his hair messy, his blue eyes are like crystals and he’s still in that t-shirt and those sinfully tight jeans. They’re standing pretty close together and Steve can smell the beer on his breath. He actually has to look away for a moment, to figure out why he was here again.

“What are you doing here, pretty boy?” Hargrove asks in a gravely yet smooth voice. The weird combination as well as the words have Steve looking up ‘ _Did he just call me pretty??_ ’ ‘ _What_ am _I doing here?_ ’

“I uh… I’m not sure, really…”

He’s not, he just knows that for the past hour he’s been pacing in his bedroom, wondering what had happened to the other boy. His voice comes out softer than he anticipated.

“I just… back at the store… you uh…”

Steve realises he should have written this down or something, for he’s completely lost as he vaguely gestures at the other boy’s body, like that would help make sense of his words. The words seem to have _some_ effect, because Hargrove shifts. His muscular arms get crossed over his chest and he leans forward a little, cocking his head, a smirk playing on his lips. He looks completely different from the confused boy he encountered at the store earlier that afternoon.

“I _what_ , princess” come Hargrove’s words in a mocking tone.

It’s the pet-name that gets to Steve, igniting something in his stomach, and it throws him a little. He’s really not sure if coming here was a good idea. The boy standing before him looks fine. Bruised, but fine.

“You looked really bad…?” it comes out more of a question than an observation. He can see Hargrove’s smirk grow, mocking him even more.

“Did I? Are you concerned about me, princess? Is that why you’re here”

Steve can feel a blush creeping up his neck and cheeks, this was _not_ how imagined this conversation going. Or maybe he should have expected it?

“No! I just…I…” How was he gonna save himself from this situation. He was growing more embarrassed by the second, and he was this close to just turning around and leaving. Letting Hargrove win whatever competition they were involved in now. Until he heard the next words come out of Hargrove’s mouth.

“You just _what_ , sweetie?”

He bristles at that particular pet-name. ‘ _Sweetie? Sweetie?!_ ’ He clenches his jaw, fed up, and gives Hargrove a piece of mind.

“Fine! Maybe I _was_ concerned, because I may not remember a whole lot from last night, you know, when you almost _killed_ me, but I _do_ remember not getting any punches in. And the ones I _did_ throw definitely weren’t to your chest, where you’re _still_ fucking bleeding, by the way.”

 He can feel his entire body shaking after his outburst, so he crosses his hands over his chest and stares at the ground, hard. He has no _idea_ how Hargrove is going to react to this. He’s never actually yelled at him, never really raised his voice at him, but knowing him, this is going to be met with a violent reaction.

Hargrove is quiet a little _too_ long for his liking, and Steve chances a glance up. He can see him looking at Steve with a snarl on his lips, teeth bared, fists clenched and fury in his eyes, ready to strike when he suddenly freezes. His head whips to the left, his eyes scanning up the road. Steve follows his gaze, seeing nothing but a car driving down the road.

“What, man?” he asks him, no idea what’s happening. It seems to shake Hargrove out of whatever that was and he turns wide eyes to Steve. And for someone who looked severely injured an hour ago, Hargrove suddenly moves very fast. He grabs Steve’s hand and yanks him inside, closing the door behind him. Before Steve can question anything or even look around he’s pulled through the house. He can see a couple of empty cans of beer lying on the coffee table, and an overflowing ashtray. He’s pulled past the couch and through the kitchen.

“Hargrove, man. What are you doing? Let me go. What the hell?” no amount of complaining seems to stop Hargrove, or make him release the bruising grip he has on Steve’s hand and in no time flat they’ve crossed the small interior of the house and Steve is being pushed into a room he can only assume is Hargrove’s. There’s an unmade bed in the middle of the room and Steve can see a broken mirror on the wall, the floor underneath it riddled in shards. He’s trying to look around some more, but Hargrove is pushing him in his chest, making him back up, as he looks at his bedroom door. Steve notices that his eyes are still wide and his breathing is coming very fast. Steve is starting to freak out a little.

“Hey what the hell man, what are you doing?” Hargrove’s reaction is immediate. One hand clamps over Steve’s mouth as the other comes around the back of his head, cradling it, as Hargrove steps into his space, chests nearly flush against each other.

“Shut up! Get in the closet, stay quiet and _don’t_ come out until I say” Hargrove says in a fierce whisper, blue eyes impossibly wide and shining. The proximity is a lot for Steve and he can feel another flush creeping up his neck, before the words coming from Hargrove finally register. He tears his face away from Hargrove’s hand, but he can feel the one cradling the back remaining there.

“What? No way man” ‘ _he wants me to get in a closet? What the hell is happening?_ ’ Something changes in Hargrove, and a sense of urgency and panic comes over him, the hand cradling the back of Steve’s head moves down his neck to his chest, softly pushing him again. Hargrove’s eyes move from his bedroom door back to Steve a few times before he seems to steady himself somewhat.

“Please” comes a harsh whisper. Shining, pleading eyes are locked onto his and Steve is stunned. ‘ _What?_ ’ Before he knows what’s happening he’s shoved backwards into the closet with force, the door shoved closed and he hears the bedroom door open and close. ‘ _What?_ ’

He stands shocked for a few moments, before his senses come back to him. The first thing he notices, is that he’s standing in between some of Hargrove’s shirt, and the other boy’s smell fills his nostrils. Cigarette smoke, beer, hairspray and something distinctly Hargrove. Steve inhales deeply a few times, before he stops himself. ‘ _Jesus, you’re practically sniffing his shirts. Get a grip!_ ’ He slowly pushes the closet door open, poking his head out and looks around the room. The mirror that’s standing on a couple of crates is broken, and there’s blood on it. ‘ _The cuts on his hand…_ ’ there’s shards and blood on the ground as well, and Steve can see a red shirt, stained a darker red, lying on the ground. ‘ _That’s the shirt he wore last night…_ ’

Suddenly a raised voice can be heard and Steve’s head snaps up. It’s a male voice, he can tell, but he can’t tell what’s being said. The sound of a scraping chair is heard, followed by another exclamation, followed by a thump. The next thump has the shelf on the wall shaking a little, and the items on it rattle.

He is about to step out of the closet, to see what’s going on, when the door to Hargrove’s room flies open, and Hargrove _himself_ is stumbling in, nearly losing his footing. Steve steps back into the closet quickly, shutting the door almost all the way, but leaving a tiny sliver through which he can see. He sees a man looming over Hargrove, all hard eyes and clenched fists. He can also see that even though Hargrove is staring back, there is a sort of caution to him, an anticipation. The man looks around the room, taking in the mess much like Steve had just done, and a snarl pulls on his lips.

“What happened in here?” the words are clipped, and Hargrove looks around as well, as though the answer to that question lies somewhere between the shards.

“Nothing, Sir” comes the mumbled reply. ‘ _And_ what _? Sir? Since when does he call anyone Sir?_ ’

“This doesn’t look like nothing” the man says back, taking a step closer to Hargrove, who seems to have stopped breathing. He must have shown something on his face, because another snarl pulls on the man’s lips and a closed fist connects with Hargrove’s jaw. ‘ _What the hell?!_ ’ Steve recoils from the action, and he has half a mind of stepping out of the closet to help Hargrove, but then he remembers the look on his face when he shoved him in the closet. It was a mix of sadness, resolve and anger, like he knew something like this was going to happen.

The force of the punch knocks Hargrove off his feet, his upper body coming to rest on his bed, his face pressed into the duvet, his hands fisting the sheets.

“Clean this mess up” come the last words from the man, before he strides out of the room, pulling the door closed with a little too much force, and a picture frame that was on one of the shelves on his wall falls to the ground. A few seconds later the front door is closed in a similar fashion.

Steve is holding his breath, not quite sure what just happened or what he should do. He slowly pushes the closet door open and moves cautiously to Hargrove, who hasn’t moved. He’s still half lying on the bed, breathing heavily, and it looks like he’s trying to tear the sheets up with his hands. Steve moves to stand next to him, the crunch of the broken mirror pieces underfoot and slowly extends his hand to lay it on Hargrove’s shoulder. His reaction is instant. Shoulders tense and move away swiftly, his head pulls up from the bed, and he is standing in record time, swaying slightly. The anger is back in his face, and all his walls are back up.

“Don’t touch me!” comes the growl. Steve’s hands come up, palms out, as non-threatening as he can make himself.

-“I didn’t..-” he starts but is cut off by Hargrove.

-“Exactly. You didn’t. You weren’t here, you didn’t see or hear anything and you’re not telling anyone. You got that?”

Meaning too or not, Hargrove had stepped forward during his rant, and was now in Steve’s face, and Steve had a moment to observe him up close. A new bruise was blossoming on his cheek, the cut on his eyebrow was bleeding freely again, there were tears in his eyes (some had spilled over) and there was a tear in his t-shirt, as though someone had tugged at it. Steve now knew where all the bruises came from, and he actually felt sorry for Billy, no one should be treated like that in their own home.

“Harrington!!” came Billy’s yell, when he had taken too long to look at him instead of answering. Steve took a step back, and nodded.

-“Yeah… Yeah I got it.”

-“Good. Get out of here” Billy turned away from him, no longer looking at him and Steve started to leave, but pausing at the bedroom door. He looked back: back at the broken room, and the broken boy standing at its centre. He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came to mind. So he stepped through the door, moved swiftly through the rest of the house and softly closed the front door behind him. He walked down the driveway and turned back one more time to look at the house. It seemed so normal, like a happy family could live here, full of love. He now knew that was not the case. He shook his head as he walked towards his car, debating on what to do, because there would be no way he would let this be.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi... Sorry about the wait, got caught in a nasty writers block... But here's the next chapter for you all (a bit shorter than the last one, sorry) Enjoy.

Chapter 6

A choked off sob escapes Billy as he hears the front door shut. He didn’t want anyone to know about this, least of all _Harrington_ and his fucking heart of gold, giving _him_ concerned looks after being on the receiving end of Billy’s rage.

He sits down on his bed and takes a few breaths. His left hand slowly moves toward his throat, but when it closes around it, there’s nothing there. A wave of panic passes through him and he jumps up, searching the floor, finding nothing but broken glass and blood. ‘ _I still had it this morning, right?_ ’ He moves the search out of his bedroom, as tears fill his eyes, making searching for it a little more difficult.  
In the living room just outside his bedroom there are some papers scattered on the floor, and when he moves them he breathes a sigh of relieve. He gingerly lowers himself to the floor to pick up his mother’s necklace, and he moves to sit with his back against the wall as he cradles it in his hand, wishing, not for the first time in recent months, that his mother would come back. _‘Dead people can’t come back, dipshit'_

After a few moments he decides to get up; he has to clean up before Neil comes home again. As he moves to put the necklace on he notices that the clasp is broken ‘ _Shit_ ’ So he scrambles up and moves back to his room, searching through every drawer for a replacement, but comes up empty. “Fuck!”  
He puts the broken necklace in his pocket, vowing he’s gonna get a new one and goes about cleaning the mess that is his room. Using a dustpan he sweeps up the remnants of his vanity mirror, ‘ _I’m gonna need to find a new one_ ’ and he tosses the red shirt out. ‘ _Man, I looked good in that…_ ’ He then moves to clean the fallen items from his shelves. One of the items is a picture frame that had fallen face down. Picking it up, the broken glass falls from the frame, as more tears fill his eyes. ‘ _First her necklace, now her picture?_ ’

“Fuck!!” comes the angered growl, as the tears spill over.

He holds the frame in his hand for a moment, looking at his mother’s smiling face, underneath the broken glass, running his thumb over the picture. He puts it back on the shelf, knowing full well he doesn’t have a spare for it. He’s gonna have to go out and buy a new one. ‘ _I need to make a fucking list_ ’

He moves outside his room, putting the fallen items away there as well. Finally he cleans the coffee table, ridding it of empty cans and emptying out the overflowing ashtray. All in all it takes about an hour and a half, having to move slow (very slow) to accommodate his bruised and broken body.

He sits down on the couch once he’s finished, looking around himself, at the empty house. He casts a glance towards his room, but he doesn’t really wanna be home when Neil gets back, so the decision is pretty easy. He grabs his jacket, his keys, his wallet, his smokes _and_ his Tylenol and gets in his car. He doesn’t really have a destination in mind, he just knows he wants to go far and fast.

 

Going far and fast may have seemed like a great plan, but his empty gas tank has other ideas. The red light blinks on the second he starts his baby up, and he knows he’s gonna have to fill her up before leaving Hawkins. So he pulls out of his driveway and makes his way to the main road, where at the end The Raymond brothers have a garage/service station. There’s one other customer as he pulls up, so he has to wait a little before getting service. He looks around, at the busy street, watching as people go about their lives. He spots the sheriff ‘ _Hooper??_ ’ puffing on a cigarette, having a conversation with a shop owner, looking bored out of his mind. He sees him looking around, much in the same way Billy himself is doing, until he spots him. A contemplating look passes over Hooper’s face, as he says something to the shop owner, before making his way across the street, towards Billy. Billy who is trying to think of a way to get out of here, but _of course_ just then it’s his turn at the service station, and he is being motioned to pull up by Raymond Brother Nr. 1. As he does, Hooper arrives at his window, motioning him to roll it down.

“Mr Hargrove” comes Hooper’s mumble, around the cigarette still in his mouth.

“Sheriff…” comes equal a mumble from Billy. He reads the nametag. ‘ _Oh... It’s Hopper_ ’

“Those are some pretty nasty bruises you got there” it seems like an offhanded remark, but something about the _way_ he says them, has Billy guessing he knows how he got them.

“So?” like hell if he’s gonna give something up.

“Wanna tell me how you got them?” Hopper takes the cigarette from his mouth to blow a large plume of smoke over the car.

Raymond Brother Nr. 1 moves from filling the tank, to get a sponge to clean the window. Billy moves to the other window to shout at him.

“Just gas!”

“It’s full service here” comes a loud shout back.

“I don’t care! Just gas!” he shouts louder. He turns back to Hopper.

“I fell, man. What can I tell ya…”

Raymond Brother Nr. 1 comes to stand next to Hopper, giving an expectant and slightly annoyed look at Billy.

“Hop” he says as greeting.

“John” Hopper says back with a nod.

In the meantime, Billy was rummaging through his wallet to find some cash, and he damn near throws it at Raymond Brother Nr. 1 as soon as he finds it. He doesn’t even wait for him to count it, as he pushes down on the pedal and high tails it out of there. He looks in his rear view mirror to find Hopper still looking at him, still with that contemplative look on his face. ‘ _God I need a drink_ ’


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As King T'Challa said as he rolled up on Killmonger before the final fight: "I am not dead!"
> 
> Sorry it took forever to post an update, but here we are, the next chapter. I'm gonna try to update more regularly, but writing. is. hard. 
> 
> Anywho. Enjoy it.

Driving away from Billy’s house was the hardest thing Steve has had to do in a long time, and for the next ten minutes he keeps debating whether he should turn back or not. In the end he decides _not_ to. Billy was pretty clear he wanted him to leave. ‘ _And since when is he Billy?!_ ’  
  
Steve pulls over on the side of the road, leaving the car idling as he thinks. Billy ‘ _Yes, he is now officially Billy_ ’ insisted he leave. But there was something in his eyes. ‘ _Tears. There were tears in his eyes. Maybe deep down he wanted me to stay?’_ Maybe that’s just something he does? Push everyone away? ‘ _Maybe I would do the same in his situation?_ ’ Could he ever be in this kind of situation? A situation where his house would no longer _be_ the save haven it is now? Would he be able to deal with something like that? ‘ _No. I’d be angry as hell._ ’ Everything about Billy was starting to add up to Steve. The anger. The violence. The attitude. The taunting and emotional walls. It’s all just a coping mechanism for the abuse he’s going through at the hand of his father. Steve knows it’s definitely _not_ an excuse for Billy’s behaviour, but it does _explain_ a lot.

He steps out of his car for a moment, needing a breath of fresh air. He leans against his car, his fingers itching for a cigarette. ‘ _When was the last time I had one?_ ’ He knows he doesn’t have any, so he just puts his hands in his pockets, looking up at the grey sky. There’s snow in the clouds, he can tell. It won’t be long now. Secretly he can’t wait for the snowfall. For everything to be covered in that white blanket. For the quiet the snow brings. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, feels the cold of the winter air, before exhaling. ‘ _What the hell, man?_ ’ He gets back in the car and turns the radio back on and decides to just drive.

He turns towards the main street, debating on whether or not he should go back to Melvald’s to buy some cigarettes. He’s not really looking where he’s going, and he’s deep in thought, mind still stuck on Billy as he comes to a stop in front of the sheriffs’ station, not really remembering driving there.

He turns his car off and sits for a second, thinking of all the information he has, and thinking on how he wants to _help_ Billy. He looks back at the station, and comes to a decision. He’s just not quite sure _how_ he’s gonna relay all this on Hopper. He gets startled out of his train of thought by a light rasping on the driver’s side window, and he actually jumps, before looking up and coming face to face with none other than Hopper. Steve starts with rolling the window down, but halfway through decides that getting out of the car is better, so he rolls it back up before stepping out. Hopper is puffing away on a cigarette with a raised eyebrow.

“You okay?” comes the gruff question, as the sheriff looks him over. Steve runs a hand through his hair, before crossing his arms as he leans against his car. ‘ _Maybe that’s a bit too casual_ ’ He stands up straight again, and shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘ _Don’t put your hands in your pockets, that’s rude_ ’ He takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms again, as he finally looks at Hopper.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good” he nods. Hopper just raises his eyebrow a little higher.

“You sure about that?”

Steve lets out a sigh, looking down at his mud riddled shoes, having no idea how to start this particular conversation.

“Those are some pretty nasty bruises you got there” Hopper starts, leaning against a parked car. Steve looks back up at the man, realising that behind the burly exterior is a man that _actually_ cares. He should have known that already, when he saw him with the nerd-squad and the new girl, but now in this moment, it’s clear to him.

“You know Billy Hargrove?” Steve asks, and the question immediately puts a scowl to Hoppers face.

“Loud mouth, louder car? Yeah I know him” comes the reply “He give you those bruises?”

Steve gives a one sided shrug, this isn’t about him right now.

“Doesn’t matter. What do you know about his dad?”

‘ _Cutting to the chase, nice Harrington._ ’ Why did the voice in his head just now sound like Billy?

The question puts a frown on Hoppers face.

“His _dad_? Don’t know. Seen him around a couple times. Nice enough I guess?”

 _That_ puts a frown on _Steve’s_ face. ‘ _Nice enough? Nice enough?! He beats his own kid!! But then again, if you don’t want people looking too closely, you act normal, right?_ ’

“Why do you ask?”

This is the moment of truth. He promised Billy he wouldn’t tell anyone anything, but he _has_ to break that promise. He _can’t_ let that go on.

“He beats Billy” he says, voice hard, eyes harder. Hopper looks at him, face blank, as he takes another drag from his cigarette, before dropping the bud on the ground, and crushing it out with his boot. He breathes out the plume of smoke, before clearing his throat.

“You sure about that? Those are some serious allegations” his tone isn’t accusatory, the opposite actually. It _sounds_ like he was actually thinking something along the same line, but hasn’t been able to do anything about it.

“Yeah. I’m sure” Steve tells him, keeping eye contact. Hopper leans forward just a fraction.

“You got prove?” he almost sounds hopeful. But at the question Steve deflates a little. No, he doesn’t have proof. ‘ _Just a broken boy, in a broken body._ ’ Hopper hums, seemingly sensing Steve’s thoughts. Steve looks back at him.

“I saw it. I saw him hit him. With a closed fist! In his face!!” his voice started out soft before gradually becoming louder, getting more wound up the more he thought about it. ‘ _This must have been going on for months, maybe even years!_ ’

“Easy, kid. Calm down” Hopper steps closer, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“No need to get worked up.”

This has Steve scowling, pulling back from Hopper’s hand.

“No need to get worked up? Billy is getting beat up. In his own home. By his _dad_. _Someone_ should get worked up over it! _Someone_ should care!”

His outburst has Hopper scowling back just as hard.

“Hey, I care! There is just nothing I can do without any evidence” Hopper growls back. And Steve knows this. Knows the police can’t do anything, not if Billy doesn’t talk. He exhales, slumping back against his car, looking back up at the snow filled clouds.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

Hopper moves to lean next to him.

“It’s okay, kid. Like you said: someone should care” Hopper sighs, takes his hat off to run his left hand through his hair before putting it back on.

“Tell you what: I’ll look into it. See if I can do something.”

Steve looks up at that, with something akin to hope.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, kid, I’ll try” is Hopper’s reply as he pushes away from the car, before giving Steve a pat on the shoulder.

“I’ll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it. Please note, that English is not my first language, so if you spot any errors or whatever, let me know and I'll fix em.
> 
> Until the next time.


End file.
